Free To Kill the Potemkin by Mark Joseph

They
don't
exist. I don't want to know who they are or how they live."
    "Do
you really
think we're going to have
a war?"
    Sorensen
looked
around. "We're already
at war. It's just that we don't shoot each other, but we do everything
else.
We're fighting for control of the sea. Whoever controls the oceans
rules the
roost. When the Russians put that sub in the Med, the one we stumbled
across
yesterday, they took a big step in that direction. They're not supposed
to get
through Gibraltar undetected, you know. That's bad news. If they can go
on with
this shit, sooner or later they'll be able to track our missile subs in
the
Med. That threatens our strategic deterrence—you know, the one they
make all
those speeches about—and that's not allowed."
    "But
we track
theirs too. We know the
location of every one of their subs in the Atlantic and the Caribbean—"
    "Except
we're not
them. We've had
superior forces all along. We can waste them any time we want, only we
don't.
We aren't so sure that that would happen if the situation were
reversed."
    "And
we don't
want to find out..."
    "Maybe
I don't
give a shit. I don't know... we're all bugs crawling over a ball of
dirt on the edge of some
nowhere
galaxy. You think we're all there is? If we go down like the dinosaurs
maybe
the whales will get their chance. They'd probably do a better job...
Hey,
ain't I profound... you'd think I knew something." He looked at his
compass and checked his bearings, then with a
flourish zipped up
his wetsuit. "C'mon, sailor, drop anchor. We're here."
    Murky
green light filtered down into the gulf. Sorensen and Fogarty followed
the
anchor rope to the bottom, where Sorensen consulted his compass. He
carried the
beacon and Fogarty the magnet.
    Fogarty
expected to find a bouillabaisse in the gulf, rascasse and eels, scampi
and
sole. Instead he found a garbage dump, long since fished out. The
debris of
centuries littered the bottom. Mixed with the silt were layers of
slime,
condoms, volcanic ash, broken statuary and Pepsi bottles.
    It
didn't
take long to find their objective—a dark shape looming up from the
deep, the
mangled hulk of a World War Two German submarine. The stern was
half-buried in
the silt, and the rest of the wreck was covered with algae and rust. On
the
conning tower they read: U-62.
    Sorensen
took the magnet from Fogarty, swam to the sub and attached the beacon
to the
hull. He switched it on, and they listened to the beep.
    They
swam
slowly around the wreck. Half the bow was torn away, and around the
edges of
the gaping hole the metal was twisted outward. In one awful moment a
torpedo
had exploded inside the boat, sinking it instantly. Since the hatches
were
closed and the radars and periscopes retracted, it was clear that the
accident
had occurred while the boat was submerged.
    Sorensen
lingered, looking for a souvenir, but the old sub had been stripped by
divers
long ago, and besides, it was too dangerous to go inside without
lights.
Sorensen jerked his thumbs toward the surface, and together they began
the slow
ascent.
----
    On
the
surface the wind died, the light faded and the bay turned smooth as a
sheet of
Formica. As they approached
the breakwater the sub was a black silhouette looming against the gray
washes
of the tender.
    Sorensen
imagined
he could see radiation
seeping from the hull aft of the sail. To him. Barracuda glowed in the
dark, her atomic fire burning with an intensity that could not be
contained.
----
    Back
in the crew
quarters Sorensen whistled
cheerfully as he rummaged around in his tiny locker for a cigarette. He
found
books, tapes, electronics manuals and uniforms, but no smokes.
    "Say,
Fogarty,
can I bum a
cigarette?"
    They
were alone.
Fogarty lay on his bunk in
jockey shorts and glowered at the bulkhead. He had not said a word
during the
ride back to the ship.
    "What's
the
matter with you? You quit
smokin' or what?"
    Fogarty
tossed a
pack of Luckys across the
passageway. Sorensen took one. "Some folks would pay a